


Ace of Spades

by Hollibella_Short



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aromantic, Aromantic Asexual Sherlock, Aromantic Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Bisexual John, Bisexuality, Blood, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pain, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollibella_Short/pseuds/Hollibella_Short
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovered at University that he was aromantic and asexual. It was a relief for him to realise he wasn't as broken as he thought. However, John was a little more surprised at his less than straight sexuality. When the two men meet there is an undeniable connection but they might not be able to compromised successfully when they realise they are both after different things in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt by the wonderful addignisherlock. Quick summary of the prompt.  
> Sherlock is aro/ace and John is allosexual/romantic. They are obviously close friends and decide to attempt to move their friendship to be being in a relationship as they realise their feelings are deeper than most friends. This becomes quite troublesome and stressful for both of them as they expect different things from the relationship.  
> I don't want to say much more than that because spoilers. Just know that this is not going to be a Aro/Ace but John's the exception fic. I will not be changing Sherlock's sexuality or romantic orientation. The main feature of this fic is how the two are able to make compromises to accommodate their differences. I hope that makes sense.

The whispers started when he was at University.

_Broken._

_Freak._

He’d never been normal and he had just accepted that. He was Sherlock Holmes; the smartest person he knew. Almost. Of course, his brilliant yet big-headed and, quite frankly, arrogant brother Mycroft was the smartest. Sherlock had thought that once he joined Oxford University people would stop treating his intelligence and observational skills as a curse. However, within the first week he was swiftly reminded that he was a freak of nature. If anything, his peers at the university were less tolerant than the childish fools of secondary school.  His brother had always told him it was a gift but after years of isolation Sherlock no longer believed that. He had tried to turn it off. He just wanted one friend in this godforsaken world.

He joined the Oxford fencing team in an attempt to find a place to fit in but they just taunted him and tried to push him into ‘getting laid’ as they quite crudely put it. He just wasn’t interested. He’d taken to the sport like a duck to water. He found the intricacy of the swordplay and the dance-like nature of the footwork very relaxing. With an épée in his hand dressed head to toe in gleaming white he felt at home. On the piste he was unstoppable as his gift of deduction enabled him to predict with great accuracy his opponent’s moves. It was an outlet for his deductive skills which didn’t upset or offend his peers. There were only a few bruised egos and the inevitable literal bruises from where the tip of the blade hit his opponents.  He wasn’t a spiteful character but he did take some pleasure in lunging more forcefully than perhaps necessary to get revenge for his team mates constant teasing. He’d asked one of the girls from ballet out on a date to try and appease his new team mates. They’d laughed and had a good time. The girl was bright and quick-witted. She giggled when he deduced the strangers around them in the small coffee shop and Sherlock, being the gentleman he was raised to be, escorted her back to her flat.

Then she’d kissed him; pulling on his tie, forcing him inside the door and pressing her body up against his. His body reacted to the situation. It was simple brain chemistry and the kiss was releasing hormones. Sherlock could tell by the girl’s dilated eyes and raised pulse that she wanted more than just a kiss. He should want this. His body should be on fire. His mind should be reeling from the kiss. Then why did it feel so wrong? He pushed the girl away with as much strength as he could muster and he ran. He didn’t stop running until he was back at his own flat.

He enjoyed the feeling of the wind in his hair as he ran and the adrenaline pumping in his veins. He spun round as soon as he entered his room and bolted the door shut. Sherlock then grabbed his laptop from his desk and leapt gracefully onto his bed. He quickly booted up the computer and his long fingers flew across the keyboard. Is it normal to be repulsed by sex? His silver eyes glistened with excitement as he trawled through forums and wikis on the subject. He spent hours that night talking to strangers who felt the same lack of desire as him. Asexual they called themselves; ace. A wave of relief flooded over him. He, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, was asexual. For the first time since he’d started education he didn’t feel broken. Well, not quite as broken as he’d once thought. Sherlock took his phone from his coat pocket and sent a quick text to his brother.

_I’m asexual. Not broken. – SH_

He knew he should probably have given more detail; why he’d felt the need to label himself or how he’d worked it out. He lobbed his phone onto the desk when it started buzzing in his hand. His idiot brother knew he preferred to text so, of course, Mycroft would try to ring him. Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was four in the morning. What on earth was Mycroft doing up at this time? Probably causing World War III or something stupid like that. Mycroft had always been vague about his job but Sherlock knew that he was employed somewhere in the Government.

‘Politics!’ He scoffed to himself as he took a gulp of coffee and immersed himself once again in the forums. He thought of the girl. They’d had a good time before she had kissed him so forcefully. Would he want to see her again? Yes. Probably. It was the first time someone had enjoyed his talent of deduction and he was still brimming with pride. A better question was would she want to see him again. He highly doubted that but he sent a quick text to confirm this.

_Sorry for running. I’m asexual. I enjoyed your company. – SH._

He threw the phone back onto his desk and flounced dramatically onto his mattress. For the second time, Sherlock sensed there was more to say. He’d read asexual coming out stories on the forums and there had been the general consensus that coming out was a momentous occasion. It was to be thought through. Apparently, you had to assess the situation to determine whether it was the right time to come out. Were others around you ready to hear? Was he ready? But, for Sherlock Holmes, there wasn’t any thinking. He took the new information about himself and accepted it. All the evidence pointed towards asexuality and he knew there was no point fighting it. It meant that there were fewer distractions when he was working. He was relieved to discover the truth about himself, why should it matter what others thought about it? His bright eyes focussed once more on the screen in front of him and he realised he’d been scrolling through the forums for the last few minutes absentmindedly. He swiftly scanned through the posts he’d missed and sent a few responses as he let his long delicate fingers dance over the keyboard.

Another term that had come up multiple times as he searched fervently through various asexual blogs, wikis and forums was aromantic. This was more complex. Sherlock had never been good at reading people’s emotions, especially in reaction to his own expressions. He liked the girl that much was clear. He had laughed with her and appreciated her own sharp wit as they debated across the table. He was unsure whether this meant that he had romantic feelings towards her though. He’d never experienced any of the signs of love. He didn’t smile when he thought of her and his pulse hadn’t accelerated when their eyes had met across the table. The only knowledge he had regarding love was the chemistry behind the symptoms. That’s all love was to him; chemistry. He closed his laptop; deciding to reserve judgement on aromanticism for a later date. His phone gave a beep from the desk indicating a text. He swiftly made a grab for his phone. His long arms were just about able to reach the device from the bed if he leant over resting his knees on the edge of the mattress.

_Piss off. Freak._

He sighed and he felt a sharp pain stab through him. Why did that word still sting so much? He should be used to it. He hated that he couldn’t restrain his emotions more efficiently. He blinked heavily as his eyes started to ache. His body had begun to betray him as he struggled to keep his eyes open and his muscles became lethargic. His thick dark curls bounced as his head hit the pillow and he drifted off to sleep ignoring his phone vibrating on the desk as it lit up the room with a soft blue glow.

* * *

 

The next morning Sherlock was woken by the never-ending buzzing of his phone. His lifted his head off the pillow with a groan and squinted at the offending object.

‘Bloody Mycroft!’ He cursed and let his head flop back onto the soft pillow. The teenager tried for several minutes to bury his head in the bedding but the buzzing only got louder and more annoying as his body woke up. He wrapped the white linen sheets round himself and sauntered over to the desk. His neck pulled slightly and he winced. ‘Idiotic.’ He muttered to himself. Sherlock knew he should have bothered to take his clothes off last night. He’d slept awkwardly in the shirt and trousers that were not designed as nightwear. His lanky body had missed the silk pyjamas that he normally wore to bed; that is if he wore anything at all. Sherlock made a grab for the phone and glanced at the clock. It was 11am. He’d missed his lecture. He was grateful for that. The lecturer barely knew what he was talking about. Sherlock had had to correct the old man’s mistakes in almost every lecture that he’d attended. In the end Sherlock had stopped making an effort to turn up. He went once in a blue moon. Sherlock looked through his missed calls. He’d had fourteen from his brother and another three from his mother. He sighed to himself.  He hated his family. They insisted on constantly checking up on him. He had a brief scroll through the messages.

_Brother mine, please pick up your phone. – Mycroft_

_Sherlock. Are you absolutely sure you’ve thought this through? – Mycroft._

_You don’t want to upset Mummy with another one of your self-diagnoses. – Mycroft._

_You’re too young to really understand this sort of thing. – Mycroft_

_Let’s be honest, Brother, you barely understand people full-stop. –Mycroft_

_Sherlock. You’re being deliberately difficult. – Mycroft_

_You should be awake for your lecture with Dr. Goodwin. Answer your phone! – Mycroft_

_On looking through your attendance, I believe you won’t be making an appearance at today’s lecture after all. I’ve informed Mummy. She’ll be so disappointed. – Mycroft._

_I’m coming round this afternoon. You’d best be awake and dressed. – Mycroft._

Sherlock let out a groan. His brother was truly insufferable. Mycroft didn’t understand. He never did.

 

* * *

  Training to be a doctor was bloody exhausting. John was up almost every night until a godforsaken hour studying. His text books were all covered in various coffee stains from where he’d knocked his drink over when he’d fallen asleep at his desk. Living in London was proving to be expensive and John just didn’t have the money even with a loan so he was working most days around his lectures, seminars and practical assignments. This didn’t leave a lot of time for all the extra reading and assignments he had to complete outside of class. However, John Hamish Watson was a stubborn man. He’d had to grow up fast when his mother died and his father took to the bottle. The old man had become abusive and it had been up to John to defend him and his younger sister Harry.  He’d quickly learnt first aid to help treat any injuries they obtained during their time at home. The violence had only increased after Harry came out as a lesbian. Their father was ashamed to have a lesbian for a daughter and living in the house. John had fiercely defended Harry but in the end it had been too much for his sister. Harry moved out as soon as she hit eighteen.  John’s home life had been a big factor in his motivation to become a doctor but he was beginning to drown under the pressure. He ran his hand through his hair and shut his text book. He hadn’t done nearly enough work for his practical tomorrow but he’d had enough. It was time for John Watson to let off some steam. The blond grabbed his leather jacket off the peg by the door whilst he sent a quick text to Mike Stamford to say he was going to the pub for a few pints.

John was on his second pint by the time Mike arrived at the pub. Mike found his friend sat at the bar alone and drowning his sorrows. It truly looked like a scene from a movie. John jumped a little as his friend slid onto the stool next to him with his wallet in hand. He smiled weakly at Mike and downed the rest of his beer.

‘Bottoms up’ he murmured as he felt the icy liquid hit his stomach with a gurgle.

‘Alright there, Watson?’ John looked up at his friend. Mike’s eyes were full of concern and John felt a wave of envy course through him. Although Mike looked tired, his eyes still had some life in them. His face wasn’t haggard and pale. Mike’s parents were paying for his accommodation and gave him an allowance each month to help with the costs of living. This meant that Mike hadn’t worked a single day since he’d started medical school and thus actually had time for sleep and even extra-curricular activities. John knew his friend was an active part of the Chess society.

‘I’m done Mike. I can’t do this anymore. Too fucking stressful.’ His words began to slur together but John barely noticed. He was angry. ‘It’s not fair! Not all of us have fucking rich parents who spoil us rotten you know!’ He prodded Mike hard in the arm to emphasise his point. At least Mike had the decency to look guilty. Somewhere in the back of John’s mind he knew he wasn’t being fair but he was so pissed off at his situation and needed to vent somehow. He needed someone to blame and his no-good father wasn’t around.

‘You need to take some time off mate. You work too hard.’ Mike finally ordered a pint of his own and another one for John. ‘Cheers.’ He said as the two men chinked their glasses together.

‘I can’t bloody well help it! I got to fucking work just to afford the rent. Then I have to fit in lectures, practicals, assignments and extra reading. I don’t even remember the last time I had a social life!’ John was now officially pissed and his anger at the world was spewing out without a filter. ‘I don’t even remember the last time I had sex…’ The last sentence was quieter as if he was in total disbelief. There had been a time where John was infamous on campus; a real ladies man. Mike barked out a laugh at the expression of pure self-pity on John’s face. It truly was a sight to behold.

‘Well then, what on earth are you doing out with me Watson? You should go out to a club and find a girl to have some fun with. Let off some steam.’ Mike patted him on the shoulder and went over to talk to some of the lads from chess club who he’d seen enter the pub earlier.

John was left alone at the bar once again. He swirled his glass for a few moments; mesmerised by the golden liquid. His head was starting to spin as he struggled to focus his eyes but nevertheless he finished the bitter cold drink before heading back out into the cool London air. He wrapped his jacket round himself and hastily zipped it up to his chin as the icy breeze hit him. His legs felt weak from the alcohol as he stumbled through the streets of London in search of a club to go to. He followed the sound of music and people talking; grabbing onto rails and fences as he went.  Eventually he found the source of the music and he joined the queue. He felt giddy as the beat of the music flowed through his body and he began to sway to the pounding rhythm echoing from the club. He spun round as he felt someone tap his shoulder. A tall dark haired man was standing behind him in the queue. He wore a red chequered shirt and tight jeans. The man was grinning at him with a smile that lit up his dark green eyes.

‘You have nice eyes’ John slurred with a giggle. The man laughed with him.

‘Thanks. Not too bad yerself. Got some good dance moves there too yer know.’ The brunet had a deep rough voice which highlighted the thick Northern accent. John felt his pulse quicken slightly at the sound. ‘Save us a dance when we finally get out of the cold?’ The stranger said with a wink that made John’s head spin a little. He nodded in a daze. John was drunk and confused. Why was he attracted to this man? He was straight. Wasn’t he? He let his eyes roam up and down the handsome stranger’s body with appreciation. The jeans looked very good, tight in all the right places. The man’s eyes were a rich emerald green that sparkled in the rays from the streetlight. The dark night highlighted the man’s strong jawline and sharp cheekbones. He was not a feminine man so John couldn’t blame his attraction to him on that. Maybe he’d just gone too long without sex. The man let out a hearty laugh as John continued to stare at him. ‘See something yer like?’

‘Surprisingly yeah…’ John admitted. His eyes were drawn to the movement of the man’s lips as he spoke. They weren’t as full as a female’s lips like he was used to but John couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss them; to feel the scratch of the man’s stubble against his skin. John felt his cheeks heat up as he blushed.

‘Surprisingly?’ The man sounded slightly hurt by that statement and John hurried to explain himself.

‘I’m not gay… or at least I wasn’t. No. I’m not.’ He stammered in confusion as he tried to comprehend what he was feeling. He was cut off by the man’s lips crashing against his. He was startled at first but soon kissed back eagerly. The smell of the man’s cologne surrounded him and he reached up the lace his fingers in the dark locks to pull him closer. His tongue swept across the other man’s lips which parted eagerly. John moaned into the kiss before breaking away to catch his breath. Green eyes bore into his own; dark with lust. John gulped as he felt his own arousal stir. The man’s lips kissed along his jaw and John gasped as the man nibbled his ear.

‘How about we skip the club and go back to mine?’ A rough voice whispered in his ear. John could have sworn the accent was thicker now and he felt his head cloud over with lust. He nodded and grabbed the man’s hand as they ran from the queue to find a taxi. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as straight as he once thought. If a man could make him feel this good from just a kiss then John Watson was quite happy to mess around with a bloke every once in a while.

* * *

 

John’s head was pounding. His throat felt dry and his bones ached. For a moment the wannabe-doctor thought he was coming down with something. He opened his eyes, wincing as the bright light burned his retinas. The smell of beer and sweat hit him like a bullet train. John was vaguely relieved his wasn’t ill but he grimaced as he began to remember the night before. He’d been horrid to Mike. He knew there was a reason he didn’t go out much. Like his father, John was not a happy drunk most of the time. John felt somebody move next to him and he rolled over to look.

‘Shit!’ He cursed under his breath. Then man lying next to him was undoubtedly stunning. He was well-built and John could appreciate the firm muscles of the man’s arms. But it was still a man. What the hell had he been thinking?! He couldn’t remember liking guys before; unless you counted Tommy Newton at college but everyone fancied Tommy Newton so John had never thought anything of it. Yet suddenly he was in bed with a man. His father would be furious. Having one gay kid had been bad enough, but for John to be gay as well was unthinkable. A shiver went down John’s spine. John could defend himself but he knew that his father would blame Harry for turning her brother gay. It was irrational but that was the way the oldest Watson viewed the gays. They were out to convert everyone to their side. John didn’t know if he could protect both himself and Harry from their father’s wrath if he were to find out the truth about John’s newfound questionable sexuality. He still fancied girls so John decided he would stick to that in future. There was no point in making his or Harry’s life more difficult.

John quietly gathered his clothes as fast as he could. He couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed his night but that had been the alcohol talking surely? He wasn’t gay! He couldn’t be.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wake up to find themselves cuffed together and alone in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So John and Sherlock have finally met. Huzzah! Just a quick reminder that Sherlock's sexuality and romantic attraction will not change in this fic. He is not and never will be sexually or romantically attracted to John or anyone else in this particular piece of writing. So if that isn't your cup of tea then don't bother reading this. That being said, I adore Johnlock and personally I see Sherlock as either bi/gay/asexual. John I see as Pan/Bi but like I said for this Sherlock is ace/aro. That isn't changing.

Sherlock’s head was pounding. He felt a sharp stabbing pain at the back of his head. He’d obviously been knocked out then; quick blow to the head. He went to reach to the bottom of his thick dark curls to inspect the damage but his wrist was pulled down by something. He felt cold metal cut into his skin. So he was handcuffed, interesting. It was too dark to see what he was handcuffed to but he was able to move his hand. Whatever it was just slowed the movement. He trailed his fingers from his own bound hand across cold metal. What he discovered on the other end shocked him. It was warm flesh.

‘John.’ He whispered. Hesitantly, Sherlock continued tracing his delicate fingers up the man’s arm. It was well built and muscular. His theory seemed correct. Carefully he brought his wrist and John’s up to his face. He inhaled deeply. John’s scent filled his nostrils and clouded his brain for a moment. A wave of relief fell over the detective. John was safe. Well, John was with him, which on thinking about it probably wasn’t safe at all. Sherlock moved his hands over John’s body blindly and found his shoulders. He gripped the soldier’s broad frame and shook him but John didn’t wake. Sherlock felt panic rise up through his body. His brain fought the emotion though. He could hear John’s shallow breaths in the dark and he’d felt a pulse when his fingers had pressed against the older man’s wrists.

‘Don’t be so sentimental!’ He hissed at himself. He knew panicking was the worst thing he could do right now. He needed to remain calm. He needed his brain to be functioning as well as it could in the darkness. Instinctively he grabbed John’s hand that was cuffed to his. The warmth was comforting and it helped Sherlock to move around in the cramped space. He kept a note of any change in John’s pulse. It wasn’t too slow but definitely not as strong as it could be. He thought that maybe John had been sedated but there wasn’t enough data to be sure. Focussing on John’s health helped to dull the pain that was at the back of his skull. He was distracted momentarily by thoughts of the skull on their mantelpiece back at Baker Street. He wondered whether Mrs Hudson had moved it again in their absence. He shook his head to push the thought out of his head and return to the pitch black room; although it was hardly big enough to count as a room. He decided that he couldn’t have been unconscious long. He wasn’t nearly hungry enough and he hadn’t eaten since lunch time the day before. Even his body would be beginning to show signs of more severe hunger by now. It was also the first time he had woken up since…

He was taken by surprise. He couldn’t remember the last thing that had happened. The detective dove into the realms of his mind palace to see if he could remember. He walked down the familiar halls. John would laugh if he could ever see this, impossible of course, but the doctor would certainly accuse Sherlock of being overly dramatic and ostentatious. The walls were covered in a rich oak panelling and the ceiling was intricately decorated. Each swirl of paint and grain of wood had the potential to hold a memory. His fondest memories made up the lavish structure of his mind palace. He allowed himself to get distracted by the artwork on this ceiling at this particular area of the palace. The painting was a tableau of the moment his brother had brought home the red setter puppy. The toddler had thick dark messy curls that fell in front of his eyes. He wore a blue and white stripy top with white trousers. A pirate’s cutlass was in one hand and in the other was a pirate’s hat. The beautiful red-furred dog was bounding towards the small child. Sherlock remembered his trousers had been covered with the long auburn strands after the dog had leapt into his lap. He smiled fondly at the memory. Red Beard had been his first friend. He carried on down the halls and entered the living room of Baker Street. Here were the memories that he needed quick access to; ones that hadn’t been filed away properly yet. They were current and new. It was essentially his short term memory. On the sofa was his phone. He picked it up and read the text that was on the screen.

_Bond Street Station. Come quickly. At least an 8. – GL_

Then the memory hit him. He remembered Lestrade had texted. He’d grabbed his coat and scarf as he strode dramatically out the door. John would have hurried after him and locked the door behind them. Good old reliable John. Sherlock had hailed a taxi as was their way and the two men had clambered into the back of the cab; Sherlock was first of course. So they’d gotten into the cab alright but had they ever made it to their destination. Sherlock tried to think back on the journey. He made a habit of calculating the fastest route to their destination. It was a pleasant distraction to his busy mind. This did mean that he tried to look out the window as much as possible during the journey. John had distracted him this time; something about a level 8 case being dangerous and him not having time to grab his gun from upstairs. He felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the heated yet hushed whispers in the back of the cab. John had been furious that Sherlock hadn’t even paused before heading out the door. He scolded the detective for not eating and drinking at least a little. Apparently he should have grabbed a roll and a glass of milk before running out. Sherlock had countered John’s arguments with his usual response; his body was transport. The food would slow him down. John had stared out the other window and the cab fell into a heavy silence.

Sherlock had cursed in his head. He hated arguing with John. The only human in his adult life that ever showed him a kindness and was impressed by his talents was John. John was everything. John must be protected. So Sherlock in turn did his best to understand the social etiquette that had baffled him his entire life. At first Sherlock had tried very hard to be friendly towards John. Soon enough it just became second-nature. They had an easy relationship both men needed each other. In many ways they completed each other. John could fit in well in social situations and looked after Sherlock when he was too distracted to look after himself. Sherlock distracted John from the mundanity of civilian life. He challenged John’s above average brain and the adventure helped counter John’s PTSD. Sherlock noticed that John’s nightmares significantly reduced when they were on a case. The thought of John being angry at him was almost too much to bear. The detective had watched the blond glare out the window.

Then nothing.

The memory stopped.

Had the car crashed? He didn’t seem to be injured apart from his head but then again, he hadn’t had much chance to move about and test that theory. He let out a sigh in the darkness. There wasn’t much he could do until John woke up. He kept his ears open for any indications of where they might be. He couldn’t hear any traffic so they weren’t being kept near a road. Apart from his breathing and John’s the world was silent. He closed his eyes and focussed harder on the silence. There must be something, anything to give him an idea of where they were. He felt John’s hand squeeze his. The doctor was waking up then.

‘Sherlock…’ John’s voice slurred in the darkness next to him. Sherlock quickly let go of John’s hand. He didn’t want John to get the wrong idea. Society apparently thought you couldn’t hold hands as friends. He thought that was utter nonsense. He’d just never had a friend close enough to want to hold hands with; until now.

* * *

John’s head felt fuzzy. He was disorientated and confused. He didn’t remember being sedated. Hadn’t he been in a cab with Sherlock? He felt something gripping onto his hand; something warm. Instinctively he let his fingers wrap around Sherlock’s. He assumed it was Sherlock anyway. He cautiously opened his eyes, expecting the light to blind him. He soon realised they were sitting in complete darkness.

‘Sherlock…’ He questioned. His throat felt dry and hoarse. His body was still weak from whatever they had drugged him with. He could hear the consonants and vowels slur together. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The warmth that surrounded his hand vanished as Sherlock pulled away. John couldn’t help but miss the feeling but he knew there were more important things to think about.

‘I’m here. How are you feeling? You were out for longer than me.’ Sherlock’s familiar baritone echoed. The sound reverberated slightly against the solid stone around them.

‘Tired. Think they drugged me. You alright?’ He spoke slowly; trying to articulate the words as clearly as possible.

‘Yes. I’m fine. Why would they drug you and not me? Surely they’d want to diminish the power of my brain and not yours; no offence.’ Sherlock spoke quickly. John could tell his brain was already two or three steps ahead of the conversation. He was using John as a sounding board already. John rolled his eyes in the darkness. He’d barely been awake for two minutes and Sherlock was off on one.

‘None taken.’ He muttered. He knew Sherlock probably wouldn’t hear him, or care.

‘Unless of course they were trying to restrain you physically.’ The detective continued. John wished he could see his friend. It was always fascinating to watch the younger man work. John could admit to himself he found the sharp intelligence and the gleam of excitement in Sherlock’s eyes attractive. Heck, he could admit the man was attractive even when he was lying on the sofa doing absolutely nothing. Well, seemingly nothing, apparently he was sorting out his mind palace when he remained motionless for hours on end. ‘Everyone who’s read your blog knows you’re a fighter. You’re a soldier. I’m just a brain to them. That could work in our advantage actually. You haven’t mentioned I’m a skill swordsman have you?’ John shook his head in the darkness then realised the detective couldn’t see the movement.

‘No, I haven’t.’ He croaked out. ‘You never told me.’ He added. John couldn’t help but picture Sherlock dancing on the battlefield with a rapier in hand. It was an amusing image but also quite appealing. John couldn’t help but notice the innuendo in the swordplay.

‘Wonderful! Now we just need to find a way out of here. I know, it’s easier said than done. It should be easier now you’re awake though. The handcuffs were restricting but now of course you can follow me and we can try and work out where we are and how to get out.’ Sherlock’s speech was clearly trying to keep up with his rocket of a mind. John grabbed the detective’s hand.

‘Sherlock! Slow down. We can’t just go running off. We have absolutely no idea where we are and I’m still feeling groggy from the drugs.’ John paused a moment. Sherlock had said that it was only him that had been drugged. That meant they, whoever they was, had subdued the detective another way. Even in the darkness the doctor could feel Sherlock’s sharp eyes on him as he waited patiently for John to finish organising his thoughts. ‘Sherlock, how did they get you in here? You must have put up a fight if they didn’t drug you. Didn’t you see…’

‘Blow to the back of the head. I was knocked out instantly. Don’t know what hit me or who. I assume they were in the car behind and rammed into us. That might be why I wasn’t drugged. I was already out cold; they didn’t need to add to that. Sloppy work if you ask me. They should have made sure my brain wasn’t at full speed.’ It took John a minute to process what the younger man had said. If Sherlock had been hit hard enough to knock him out then he would be hurt; possibly bleeding.

‘Damn it Sherlock!’ His voice cut through Sherlock’s speech. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner you were hurt? How do you feel? Is there any blood? You let me know instantly if you start to feel drowsy…’ John felt himself slip into army doctor mode. He’d dealt with situations far worse than this before. They would both get out of this alive. He’d make sure of that.

‘John… I’m fine. Come on, let’s see if we can get out of here.’ Sherlock pulled John to his feet and they began to feel the cold brick work around them.

It was damp but they weren’t boxed in on all four sides. They appeared to be stuck at the end of a long narrow corridor. They moved slowly; each of them keeping their free hands out in front of them. Their cuffed hands were entwined by their sides. John was happy that Sherlock hadn’t pulled away again. In the darkness John found a great comfort in the constant warmth in his palm. They followed the weaving corridor for some time. John felt Sherlock’s walk slowed down slightly, the detective began to lean more on his doctor.

‘Sherlock…’ John whispered into the darkness. He heard his friend’s breathing getting heavy. That was not a good sign. He felt his heart race as adrenaline began to pump through his body. They were running out of time. He pulled the detective to a halt and brought their cuffed hands up to the back of Sherlock’s soft curls. The strands were matted with dried blood. It was a texture that John was all too familiar with. He pulled the matted hair apart gently to try and ascertain in the darkness whether the wound was still bleeding. He swore as he felt a warm dampness on the detectives skin. Head injuries were notorious for bleeding badly. He needed to get his friend to a hospital before Sherlock lost too much blood.

‘We have to keep moving.’ The brunet’s voice was weak and breathy. John knew he had to find a way out of the tunnels and fast.

‘No, I have to keep moving. You have to keep breathing. I will not lose you again Sherlock!’ Throwing caution to the wind he picked up the tall detective, he felt his wrist twist has the handcuffs dug into his skin. He hissed under his breath at the pain but otherwise ignored it. Sherlock was heavier than he looked but at least he didn’t resist being carried. John ran. He bashed into the sides of tunnels more times than he could count but he just kept running. Eventually he heard the sound of water above his head; they were under the Thames then. The sound was beautiful after the silence of the tunnels. He weaved as fast as he could, searching for an exit. His legs were on fire and he could barely keep his breathing steady. He was thankful that they weren’t stuck on the plains in Afghanistan though. The blaring sunlight and blistering heat were something he could live without. Finally a column of light blasted down in front of him. There was an open manhole directly above them. He could hear the city traffic and he yelled as loud as he could. The soldier kept screaming until his voice went hoarse. Sherlock’s breathing was weak. John felt a lump at the back of his throat and his eyes stung. They weren’t going to make it. He hugged the detective’s body to him and began to cry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really cried but he couldn’t hold it in. He was alone with no way of getting out. He was cold. He was exhausted and hungry. His best friend, and the only man he had ever loved, was bleeding out in his arms. So for the first time in years, Dr. John Hamish Watson cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the lovely Sherrllocked and Lilbasthet on tumblr for reading through this! Please comment/kudos if you liked it! I'd love to know your feedback

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to thank lilbasthet and sherrllocked (both on tumblr) for reading over this and giving me suggestions! If you have any feedback please leave a comment. Tell me what you think! Thank you for reading. See you for the next instalment!


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